


The Revenge of the Fruitcake Affair

by spikesgirl58



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 16:15:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2857070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just why are those two THRUSH agents so hot of Napoleon's and Illya's heels?  Could it be that Napoleon is safeguarding Mrs. Waverly?  Could it be Illya stationed at the Waverly house?  Or might it be something else entirely different?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Revenge of the Fruitcake Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Glennagirl](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Glennagirl).



 

These were the moments that Alexander Waverly lived for. He was in his favorite chair, his feet on a hassock, and he had a glass of single malt scotch within easy reach. The only sounds in the room were Martha’s knitting needles and the crackling of a fire in the fireplace. Outside the snow drifted down and inside there was peace and a sense of calm. He dozed lightly, enjoying the moment.

“Alexander?”

“Yes, my dear?” He didn’t open his eyes.

“I’ve been thinking.”

That should have been the first warning sign, but as lulled into a comfortable abyss as he was, Alexander didn’t pick up on it. “About what?”

“I don’t think I’m going to do fruitcake this year.”

“What?” He sat straight up in his chair. Now Alexander knew all the jokes about fruitcakes and he eschewed them. He adore the dense dried fruit-filled cake, especially that of his wife’s. She always went a bit heavy on the brandy – thankfully.

“Oh, don’t fear. I meant as gifts. I will still make a few for us.”

“Oh, thank heavens. Don’t scare me like that!” He reached for his pipe and checked the bowl.

“I was thinking rather of doing a party.”

“What sort of party?”

“A cookie decorating party on Christmas Eve. We could invite the Wallingers, and the Stockards and the children, of course. Everyone who comes has to bring a dozen of their favorite cookies and their favorite cookie sprinkles. We would provide the icing and the sugar cookies.”

“Sounds like a lot of work.”

“Oh, pish posh.” Martha’s knitting needles paused. “All you have to do is perform one small task.”

“And that would be?” He was cautious. He knew about her small tasks.

“Convince that charming Mr. Solo and his lovely partner to help me host.”

“My dear, they are trained agents and two of the best.   They are likely to be called to the very ends of the world at a moment’s notice. They have responsibilities and burdens that most people would find crippling and yet they carry on.”

“Then they have earned a break. Surely you have other agents who are as competent.”

He did, but he had to admit that Solo and Kuryakin were his first stop on the assignment train. When they were involved, he didn’t have to worry about the affair. They would take care of whatever came up… usually. “Well, yes, but –“

“And these agents are equally as available as those two young men?”

“Yes, but—“

“Then you will ask them in the morning?”

With a deep sigh, Alexander nodded to his loving wife. “You could give THRUSH lessons, my dear. I will ask them in the morning.”

 

                                                                        ****

Kia Decarlo drummed his fingers on the tabletop and waited for his partner to stop pacing and swearing. From the looks of it, Rafig Mamsaang wasn’t about to do either. It had taken them considerable effort to dig their way out of the mess that had been their last assignment.

“Why don’t you at least give me a hint as to what’s wrong?”

“Remember where we were a year ago?” Rafig stopped mid step and turned to face his partner.

“Yeah, stuck in some communications room at Central. Now we are out in the field and seeing action.” To Kia’s way of thinking, it was a perfect reward for a job well done.

“I’m old, I don’t want to be in the field. All because of that damn fruitcake.” He plopped down and sighed heavily. “And I didn’t even get a taste.”

“Hey, it could be worse. We have a nice office now and no one messes with us. Our boss…”

“Former boss,” Rafig corrected.

“Former boss is caroling with the angels.”

“He did love his caroling.”

“Shame the rest of Central didn’t agree.” He leaned forward to glance out of the one-way glass. “And our friends are sitting there watching us. As long as Solo and Kuryakin are preoccupied, THRUSH has the upper hand.”

“One hopes. With those two, I’m not as convinced.” Rafig reached for a manila folder to start working on his latest expense account. “I hate these things. Do you suppose UNCLE…?”

_“Naw, they just generate the crap for us to file.” The small console crackled to life interrupting Kia._

_“Napoleon, this is Ben Dorsey. I’m in route along with Dex.”_

_“Trouble? We weren’t supposed to be relieved for another six hours.”_

_“Mr. Waverly wants the two of you back at HQ right now.”_

_“What’s going on?”_

_“No idea. Those were my orders.”_

“Hmm, now that’s interesting.” Kia slipped his partner’s a sly sideways glance. “Fruitcake?”

“Timing is right.”

“Shall we become Solo’s and Kuryakin’s new best friends?”

“Only if it means I can bury Solo six foot deep.”

                                                                        ****

A chill raced across Napoleon’s shoulders and he shivered. “Brr.”

“What’s wrong?” Illya was sitting on a crate at the other end of the room, staring out a grime-streaked window at what appeared to be a vacant building, but was, in fact, reputed to be THRUSH’s newest headquarters. “It’s not exactly cold in here.”

Nor was it exactly hot, but they had been forewarned and dressed heavily. Illya now sat in just his flannel shirt and pants. His coat, scarf, gloves, and hat were tossed into a corner of the small room.

“Someone just danced across my grave.” Napoleon was focused on the street view. His overcoat and other winter outerwear were neatly folded and carefully set upon a section of newspaper.

Illya risked a fast glance in the direction of his partner. “Considering how popular you are with the secretarial pool right now, there’s probably a line.”

“That wasn’t my fault.”

“So you say.” Illya rubbed his eyes and reached for the binoculars. “I still say we pulled this assignment as an act of revenge or else Mr. Waverly has finally lost it.”

“Then why you? I was the one who made the mistake.”

“Guilt by association.”

Napoleon’s communicator beeped and he picked it up. “Solo here.”

“Napoleon, this is Ben Dorsey. I’m in route along with Dex.” Dexter Wiggins was Dorsey’s partner.”

“Trouble? We weren’t supposed to be relieved for another six hours.”

“Mr. Waverly wants the two of you back at HQ right now.”

“What’s going on?”

“No idea. Those were my orders.”

“And I say never question the wisdom of Alexander Waverly.”

“I thought you were just a couple of moments ago?”

“Me? Perish the thought!”

 

****

Napoleon paused for a moment in front of Waverly’s office, his hands doing their usual pre-meeting inspection. Illya merely shook his head and pushed past him and into the lion’s den.

Alexander was sitting at the round table, his best poker face on.

“This could be trouble.” Illya hesitated and let Napoleon pass him.

“You did file our last expense report, right?” Napoleon murmured as they took their usual seats.

“In triplicate and kept a copy.” Illya had learned early on how easily expense reports got ‘lost’ by disgruntled clerks and secretaries.

After a long moment, Alexander found his voice. “How long have you been in the service of UNCLE, Mr. Solo?”

“Nearly fifteen years, sir.”

“And you, Mr. Kuryakin?”

“Not quite as long.”

“And you would both follow my instructions to the letter no matter how inane they might be?”

“Yes, sir,” both men chorused and then exchanged nervous glances.

“If I were to tell you to retrieve every King’s shilling at the bottom of every tankard of ale in London?”

“We would do our best, sir?” Napoleon shifted uneasily in his seat. He’d hoped to be in New York for Christmas this year. “Is this a new THRUSH threat?”

“No, Mr. Solo. I was speaking rhetorically.” He studied them for a long time, the smoke from his pipe curling about his head. “In short, I need a favor from the two of you.”

“Sir?” Illya leaned forward. “Are you in trouble?”

“Not yet, but if you refuse me, I very well might be. My wife has gotten it into her head to have a Christmas party this year, a lavish affair.”

“And you want us to act as bodyguards for her?”

“No, Mr. Solo, as hosts. I don’t get around the way I used to. I need someone who can keep up with Martha and help her with her tasks. Of course, I can’t order you to do this.” He paused and smirked. “Well, I suppose I could, but I won’t.”

“Mrs. Waverly wants us to host a Christmas party?” Napoleon sat up a bit straighter. “What sort of party?”

“A cookie decorating party. For example, you might be in charge of the frostings while Mr. Kuryakin might control the sprinkler.”

“Don’t say a word, Solo,” Illya murmured without even moving his lips and Napoleon struggled to keep from laughing.

“When would this be, sir?”

“I will let you know. In the meantime, you will stay in New York.”

“You lucked out, Napoleon. Now you can finish your Christmas shopping. You should take Mrs. Waverly along. She has a black belt in it.” Illya’s eyes grew round as he realized what he said. “Sir, I meant no disrespect—“

“None was taken and I happen to agree with you. Mr. Solo should take Mrs. Waverly shopping.”

“What about Mr. Kuryakin? Shall he accompany us?”

“No, he will be far too busy baking cookies.”

“Too late to trade?” Illya asked and Napoleon laughed.

“I think it’s the perfect assignment for him!” He clapped his partner on the shoulder. “Merry Christmas, old man.”

                                                                                      *****

Martha Waverly lifted a flimsy bit of nylon and shook her head. “I couldn’t imagine this keeping any warm in bed. Why, I can see right through it.” She held it up and looked through it to a medium sized man with no outstanding features whatsoever.   “”But I don’t suppose that is its purpose, dear, is it?” Napoleon’s cheeks grew red and she laughed. “You didn’t invent sex, Mr. Solo.” She went to hang the negligée on the hanger and dropped it. “Oops.”

Both of them bent down to retrieve the garment and Mrs. Waverly grasped Napoleon’s forearm.

“What’s wrong?”

“That man over there. I know him. I think he’s THRUSH. He’s been at every store we have. I recognize him because he’s trying so hard to blend in. You learn a trick or two living with Alexander.”

“I imagine you would. How do you think you know him?”

“I don’t for certain, but he looks just like the man who kidnapped us last Christmas.”

“That’s good enough for me. I’ll call headquarters and have him captured.”

Martha smiled then, a sly mischievous thing. “I think we can do better than that, don’t you think, Mr. Solo?” She stood, the negligée in hand. “I do believe I shall try this on.”

“Ma’am,” Napoleon murmured, a gentle hand on her elbow, guiding her towards the changing room. Out of the corner of his eye, the man followed them and that was enough for Napoleon.

 

                                                                        ****  


“Is baking soda the same thing as baking powder?” Illya looked from a can to a box for a moment and then pulled out his glasses to study the small print on the box. “Contains sodium bicarbonate.”   Then he looked at the can. “Contains sodium bicarbonate, cream of tartar and starch.” “Not the same, then.”

“How’s it going?” Illya had wrangled April into helping him. Her skills at baking were well known and he needed all the help he could get. She set down the bags she was carrying.

“I’m becoming familiar with my ingredients. Did you know that baking soda and baking powder aren’t the same?”

“I did, but only because I tried to make Baking Soda Biscuits with baking powder. It was a lesson well learned. Actually reading the package wouldn’t have occurred to me.”   She smiled at Illya’s frilly apron over his black pants. “You make quite the picture of domesticity, Mr. Kuryakin. Some woman is going to be a lucky bride.” At his scowl, she laughed. “So, what are we making?”

“Sugar cookies, primarily, but Mrs. Waverly said that it might be nice to try something else as well. Do you know any cookie recipes?”

“Don’t you? How about something Russian?”

“I merely eat cookies. I haven’t yet had the need or desire to make them.”

“No time like the present, then. What was your favorite?”

“Pryaniki. They are spice cookies filled with jam.”

With a smile, April reached for a cookbook and handed it to him. “There you go. Start looking.”

                                                                        ****

“Where are you?” Rafig’s voice crackled in Kia’s ear and he winced.

“Ouch! Turn down your gain. I’m outside the ladies’ dressing room at Macy’s. The old woman is trying on a negligee.”

“Why am I tempted to scream, “My eyes! My eyes!”

“You and me both. We’ve been to every store in Manhattan. My feet are killing me. What are my orders from here?”

“Just follow at a safe distance. Don’t engage.”

“Do I know you?” The voice behind Kia made him jump. He turned and looked directly into the no nonsense eyes of Napoleon Solo.

“No… I don’t think so.”

“I think it’s rude to listen to a radio inside like that. You should take it out.” Napoleon nodded to the earpiece.

“I was just listening to… the game.” With a less than rock solid hand, Kia took the earpiece out and put it in his jacket pocket.

“I see.” Napoleon smiled tightly. “And now the answer to the first question. You seem to be popping up everywhere we’ve been today.”

 

                                                                        ****

Rafig strained his ears to hear something, anything that might give him a hint. “Aw, Kia,” he whispered and then stood to grab his coat.

He got to Macy’s just as they were closing and he wasted precious moments, playing hide and seek with the store staff before heading to the women’s fitting rooms.

“Kia?” he half shouted, half whispered.

Rafig jumped at the muffled noise as a cart piled deep with unfolded sweaters heaved. Instantly he headed to it and began to dig, quickly at first then slowing. He found a strangely familiar ankle and sighed with relief.

Within a minute, he had Kia unburied, untied and sitting on the floor.

“In a store packed with holiday shoppers, how did he manage to—“

“Don’t ask.” Kia finger combed his hair, damp with sweat. “It was like a sauna in there.”

“Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. The traffic is pretty snarled tonight.”

“I just want to go home, get a bath and try to put this whole miserable evening behind us.”

“Again, I apologize.”

“For?”

“We’re locked in for the night. The best we can hope for is to avoid the security officer and wait for morning.”

“I’m gonna get Solo if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Like that’s going to happen.”

“I happen to know exactly where he’s going to be and when.”

“How?”

“That would be telling. Let’s just say, both he and Kuryakin are in for a big surprise this coming Saturday night.”

                                                                        *****

The party was in full swing. Napoleon set his cap to a jaunty angle and circulated through the room. He’d already made several passes by the mistletoe, although not always garnering the kiss he was angling for.   What was the attraction he had for older women? They all wanted to hug and kiss and a few even went so far to try for a casual grope. Napoleon was beginning to understand how a secretary felt.

Alexander Waverly was sitting in front of the fire like a proud monarch. Various friends and children stopped to pay their respects, all under the watchful eye of Section Three. Napoleon counted at least four other agents, circulating both inside the house and out. They were dressed as hired help and security, but there was no mistaking the carriage of the shoulders and the attention to the milling guests.

He spied Illya, wearing a felt reindeer hat, trying to help one of Waverly’s grandchildren make a sprinkles selection and made a beeline there.

“How’s it going?” Napoleon asked as Illya handed the child a small plastic jar of red and green candies and sent him on his way.

“How much longer must I wear this infernal headpiece?” Illya sputtered, making sure none of the guests heard them.

As if by magic, Mrs. Waverly joined them, her cheeks rosy from just a tot or three of sherry. “Oh, Mr. Kuryakin, you look so festive!”

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

“And Mr. Solo! You are the topic of conversation among my bridge group. I’ve had several offers.”

“Ah…”

“Not to fear. I explained that you were both doing this as a favor to Alexander and that your services were not for sale.”

“Thank you,” Napoleon whispered. “I think everyone is having a good time.”

“They are, thanks you the two of you. Mr. Kuryakin, those cookies you made, the pysanki—“

“Pryaniki,” Illya correct gently.

“Yes, those, are quite the hit of the party. You must give me the recipe.”

“You actually have the recipe in one of your cookbooks.”

“Excellent! Aren’t I the clever one?” She laughed and then stopped. “I seem to have lost my glass.”

“Permit me to retrieve…” Napoleon started, but then a commotion interrupted him. Instantly he reached for his weapon, but Martha’s hand covered the back of his.

“Let’s not be hasty, dear.”

Two Section Three agents appeared through the crowd, dragging two men with them. Napoleon easily recognized the man he’d left tied up and hidden beneath the sweaters at Macy’s.

“Why, Mr. Decarlo, how are you this evening?” he asked.

“You know these guys, Solo?” Paseo, the closest Section Three shook his captive.

“And this would be Mr. Mamsaang, your partner, I assume?” Illya pulled the reindeer hat from his head, his face hard. “I still have memories of your shoes, Mr. Mamsaang, as they assaulted my ribs.”

Alexander appeared, his heavy eyebrows burrowing into his eyes in a frown. “Just what were you trying to accomplish, gentlemen?”

Mamsaang looked at his partner and then back. “Fruitcake?”

“Fruitcake?”

“We never got any and we’ve had to listen to it for a year. We were just going to sneak in, grab a piece and go.”

“I find your argument lacking in logic,” Illya said, coming much closer, but Waverly held up a hand.

“Take them away.”

“Off to Headquarters for you,” Paseo said. “Merry Christmas.”

“But first, Mr. Paseo, take our guests to the kitchen. Give them both some fruitcake and then escort them to headquarters. We will contact Central in the morning to negotiate their release.”

“Sir?” Napoleon looked from his boss to the grinning THRUSH agents and back

“It is Christmas, after all, Mr. Solo. We are not animals. Peace on earth and all that.” Then Alexander looked directly at the THRUSH agents. “Do not make this mistake again, gentlemen, as you will not find me as sanguine the next time around.”

                                                                        ****

Kia looked from the barred cell door back to where his partner was lying on a cot, happily eating his fourth or fifth piece of fruitcake. Mrs. Waverly had even given him a loaf of his own.

“So that’s what this was all about? The damned fruitcake?”

Rafig chewed with his eyes closed. “It’s really good fruitcake, Kia.”

“I can’t wait to hear you report to Central. If you thought our assignments were bad before…”

“That we now know where Waverly lives, his security measures and an alternative was into UNCLE HQ? I think that we will be hailed as returning heroes. Besides, I got my shopping done.”

“How’s that?”

“I pinched that Section Three’s communicator and hid it outside. Can’t wait to put that in someone’s stocking.”

Kia sat down beside his partner and laughed. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Here. Have some fruitcake.”

 

Russian Spice Cookies or Honey Bread - Pryaniki

  * **Prep Time** : 40 minutes
  * **Cook Time** : 20 minutes
  * **Refrigeration time** : 60 minutes
  * **Total Time** : 120 minutes



**Ingredients**

  * 3 cups all-purpose flour
  * 1 teaspoon baking soda
  * 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
  * 1/2 teaspoon ground cardamom
  * 1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
  * 1/2 teaspoon allspice
  * 1/8 teaspoon salt
  * 2 large egg yolks
  * 1 teaspoon vanilla
  * 1 cup granulated sugar
  * 1 cup honey
  * 1/2 cup confectioners' sugar



**Preparation**

  1. In a medium bowl, sift together flour, baking soda, cinnamon, cardamom, nutmeg, allspice and salt.  
  2. In a separate large bowl, beat with an electric mixer at high speed the egg yolks and sugar until they are pale yellow and thick.  
  3. Heat the honey in a small saucepan over low heat until it liquefies. Cool slightly so the heat doesn't scramble the eggs. Stir the melted honey and the vanilla into the beaten egg mixture.  
  4. Mix in the dry ingredients to form a stiff dough. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 1 hour.
  5. Heat oven to 350 degrees. Place parchment paper the size of your cookie sheets on a clean surface. Using a cookie scoop, portion out mounds of dough on the prepared cookie sheets leaving 1 inch between cookies. They will flatten out somewhat but still retain a domed shape. Alternatively, roll out a portion of the dough directly onto the parchment paper. Use your favorite cookie cutter shape or, more traditionally, a round 1 1/2-inch cutter. Cut rounds of dough spacing 1 inch between. Pick up scraps of dough and repeat with remainder of dough on another lined cookie sheet. Lightly brush the tops of each cookie with honey.  
  6. Bake for 10-20 minutes, or until just golden, rotating the sheets halfway through for even baking. Cool on the sheets until the cookies firm slightly. Transfer to racks to finish cooling.  
  7. In a bowl, add the confectioners’ sugar and enough water (1 to 2 tablespoons) and whisk together to form a thin icing. Spread on cooled cookies with a pastry brush.




End file.
